


For Hearts To Grow Tender And Warm

by TheHopefulLunaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Enjolras, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Christmas, Confused Enjolras, Disaster Grantaire, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Slow Burn, Snowed In, even more oblivious Enjolras, kind of, les Amis show up in later chapters, winter fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-17 20:10:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHopefulLunaire/pseuds/TheHopefulLunaire
Summary: ‘Everything okay?’Enjolras, with a sharp intake of breath, rubbed the side of his face. ‘What I also found is that there’s no internet connection. I tried to call Courfeyrac several times. Combeferre too. Nothing. And you know Combeferre always answers his phone.’When Grantaire and Enjolras find themselves trapped in a chalet deep into the Vosges for several days, including Christmas, Grantaire is forced to get over the strange affliction Enjolras always ignites within him if he doesn't want the atmosphere to quickly become suffocating. Also, there's Enjolras' usual annoyance with him, but somehow it's different than usual.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm French, so English=not my native language :)

Grantaire hadn’t expected to spend Christmas Eve and the couple of days preceding it in a chalet deep into the mountain, but the Universe had a mind of its own and who was Grantaire to resist it. 

 

Courfeyrac had approached him at the end of the last meeting before winter break with the offer, Jehan by his side and an amiable smile lighting up his face. Grantaire was more surprised by the invitation being extended to him than them waiting last-minute to ask. Almost every member of Les Amis had plans already made, and train or plane tickets (depending of whom) already bought. Two days before the holidays was simply too short a notice to make any change by now. Joly and Bossuet, for instance, had already packed everything the previous night. They would’ve finished two days ago when Bossuet had decided to start on his own if the evening hadn’t ended up with the zip of his own suitcase remaining in his hand and the wheels of Joly’s suitcase breaking away and sliding under the couch. And until that moment Grantaire, had been under the impression that Courfeyrac’s plan consisted of spending the winter break with Combeferre and Enjolras in the former’s childhood home with his whole family. 

 

‘It would only be us, you and Feuilly,’ Courfeyrac informed him before Grantaire could ask, then poured himself a drink from the nearly full bottle Jehan had sneaked from the table beside his while they made they way over here. He had, it seemed, no suspicion whatsoever toward the liquid. ‘And only until Christmas. Feuilly has volunteered to take shifts on the twenty-five so we would be back by the twenty-four.’

 

‘And you expect me to be available with no notice beforehand?’

 

Jehan nodded next to Courfeyrac. ‘Eponine told us you should be free the first week.’

 

And the second week as well, Grantaire didn’t bother pointing out. 

 

His parents had, this year again, not deigned inviting him for their celebrations and he was more than grateful for what was a deliberate omission on their part. Christmas, which had been Grantaire’s favourite season of the year a long time ago, had since lost its enchantment and he failed to see the marvels it used to hold when he was still a kid as anything other than plain encouragement for consummation. Now, the period was simply too much for him to bear, too many people in the streets, too many illuminations and decorations everywhere, shops bustling too much and carols absolutely inescapable anywhere he went seeking sanctuary and most importantly silence. It really wasn’t surprising that the idea of spending it alone and far from his parents could only be better than having to endure several agonising days of the same atmosphere but with the addition of their company and all of their friends’. 

 

Eponine had of course invited him along with Cosette and her siblings (her parents away from the picture as usual). Grantaire had politely declined, having no desire to impose his abrasive presence to the newly formed couple when both were still adapting to each other. 

 

This scenario: him locked in his flat with only wine and his solitude for company, away from the frenzy from the city was the best thing he’d thought he could actually hope for. 

 

Now, Grantaire had to admit that a couple of days spent surrounded by friends in a chalet away from the craziness of Paris, was somehow more appealing than his initial plan. Also, he could use the different scenery there to his advantage and paint. Forest and mountain tops covered in a heavy blanket of snow and nature stretching wide before him would change from what he usually produced when inspired to actually grab a brush instead of despairing his lack of motivation. This might, if he was lucky—which he rarely ever was but the universe might be merciful for once, actually help him let go and release all the pressure and debilitating tension of the last few weeks. 

 

‘And your uncle’s okay with you inviting strangers over to his place while he’s absent?’ Grantaire asked, before he titled his head back and gulped the last of his beer.

 

Courfeyrac nodded. ‘He’s okay with it. And even if he wasn’t, I would’ve invited you anyway.’ He waved a hand as though his uncle’s approbation did not particularly matter. ‘I simply wouldn’t have told him. There would be no reason for him to know anyway. He’s in Brazil for the next two months.’

 

‘Other important fact to take into account before you‘re inspired to decline,’ Jehan added in a light voice. ‘It isn’t good for anyone to spend so much of their time in a metropolis, even though you love Paris. Human beings need fresh air, and to feel connected to nature, if only every now and then. It’s excellent for the body and the brain.’ 

 

Grantaire who usually highly valued Jehan’s opinions, doubted that his brain would be receptive to any benefits nature and fresh air could provide. But instead of commenting about this, he sent an affronted look to Jehan. 

 

‘And why are you so sure I would decline such an appealing offer. No,’ Grantaire shook his head, exaggeratedly, sending his curls bouncing against his forehead. ‘No, sir. No. I love spending holidays in the capital when the city is bustling. So many tourists everywhere. You can’t have a walk in the streets anymore, all of them are wearing expressions of pure wonder. It’s always such a delight to see so many strangers elated, looking around as though they’ve actually witnessed the birth of the Christ himself. And let’s not forget the incitation and temptation regarding consumerism when one has barely the means to feed himself. Works every time to make one feel better about himself.’ Grantaire lifted the bottle back to his lips and only when nothing passed between his lips did he remembered this one was empty. He sighed. ‘No one would deny it. It really is the most wonderful time of the year. And I literally would fight anyone who would be tempted to argue on this, anyone who would dare suggest that it’s not the period of the year where Earth feels exactly as though Heaven had somehow descended upon Earth— if Heaven was real, of course.’ 

 

Courfeyrac and Jehan exchanged uncertain glances as Grantaire took the bottle brought by Jehan and gave a quick sniff at the top. 

 

He grimaced. 

 

Rosé. Far from his favourite. 

 

‘Does it mean you’re saying yes?’ Courfeyrac asked, voice hopeful. 

 

Grantaire shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He glanced to the tables around them to see if there was any bottles left at the tables the rest of Les Amis were assembled around. No luck, no bottles left except for the already empty ones. And he had no money left to encourage his alcohol consumption. He looked back to Courfeyrac and Jehan. ‘One condition, though.’

 

‘Yes?’ Courfeyrac encouraged when Grantaire didn’t clarify right away.

 

‘No obligation to buy gifts.’ 

 

The last couple of months he been hard enough to go through, and December made even more so after the need for new art supplies appeared following two eccentric commissions. Grantaire would’ve been able to buy presents if he’d been paid for them already, but with all his finals and the end of term, his time had run short and his client had insisted on paying his work (and the supplies) only once the commissions were done, seen, and approved. As it was, he would be done with them by the second half of January if not later. 

 

‘Offering gifts is never obligated,’ Jehan affirmed to which Courfeyrac gave a firm nod beside him. 

 

‘Exactly.’ Courfeyrac locked his eyes with Grantaire’s. ‘Only you and your good humour are required.’ 

Grantaire snorted before he could control himself. ‘Well, if you want to spend a couple of days trapped in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, far from any civilisation, with me around to keep you all entertained, how could I dare refuse.’ He pushed his chair back with a loud scratch, attracting to him several pair of eyes. He made a show of bowing low before Courfeyrac and Jehan. ‘I, Grantaire, am nothing if not your humble servant.’

 

Jehan’s delighted laugh uplifted Grantaire’s general mood and he straightened back with a smile on his lips. 

 

‘Nice,’ Courfeyrac said. ‘I truly believed convincing you would be more of a battle than that.’

 

Grantaire brought a hand to his heart in a shocked manner. ‘Wow. I am vexed. Are you implying that I’m able to pleasantly surprise people? You especially?’ He exclaimed. ‘A change of conduct is obviously needed.’

 

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll send you the informations later tonight,’ he said at the same time Enjolras came over to the table accompanied by Combeferre.

 

Enjolras spared Grantaire only the briefest of glance before he turned to Courfeyrac.

 

His smile slipped away from his lips at the blatant disregard. It was nothing unusual, but tonight he’d been desperate to be on the receiving side of something less hostile than what usually received. The Musain’s air tonight was light and joyful as though everyone had already been bewitched by the Christmas season. And Grantaire, fool that he was, had hoped Enjolras might address him differently, with something more agreeable than disdain for once. A harsh and scornful snicker rose in the back of his throat and he hurried to swallow it back down.

 

All of Enjolras’ looks were pleasant. Even the stern and terse and pitiful ones he always cast Grantaire’s way. He couldn’t recall the last time Enjolras had lowered himself and eyed him without deception or exasperation shadowing the righteous blue of his eyes, except perhaps the first meeting Grantaire had attended. All those months ago, when Enjolras didn’t know Grantaire yet as anything other than a potentially new member of his political group. 

 

Grantaire had found himself there on pure coincidence. He’d been seeking the warm oblivion of alcohol at the Musain rather than an assembly where he could express his frustration against society and share self-righteous convictions and offer bright ideas to bring change. He had came across Les Amis de l’ABC in the upstairs room with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. The chatters had caught his attention and before he knew it, Grantaire had found himself standing at the top of the stairs near the doorway. 

 

He had sneaked unsteadily at the back of the room and his eyes had fell upon Enjolras, standing at the front with a commending stature and a disarming spark in his eyes; he’d been imposing, spine straight and bearing impetuous, deep in an impassioned speech with his voice strong and assured, hands gesturing sharply.

 

Five seconds later, Grantaire was helplessly entranced. 

 

It wasn't the man’s appearance that did it. He was what one could consider conventionally handsome, sure. Androgyne, golden mane, harmonious features, high cheekbones, looking like he could’ve been chosen to be the face of some luxury perfume if his face didn’t give an impression of innocence and delicacy despite his evident fierceness. Typical models were usually sharper edged than he was. But it wasn’t his looks that subjugated Grantaire. He walked by unfairly good-looking people everyday. Good-looking people weren’t particularly interesting to Grantaire. They usually lacked a certain je ne sais quoi that made faces fascinating to contemplate and reproduce on paper or canvas or clay. No, Grantaire blamed Enjolras’s effect on him on his self-assured nature and unshakeable beliefs. 

 

In that exact moment, where Grantaire looked at him for the first time, he understood fully what enlightenment was as it slammed right into him. The force of the impact surpassed anything he ever felt in his whole life. He was left shaken to the core. He was coming back to life. He had raised his head above the surface and breathed in refreshing air for the very first time. 

 

Months later Grantaire still hadn’t gotten over it to function properly around Enjolras. But by now, Grantaire had given up hope of ever growing accustomed to his divine presence. Grantaire was a lost cause, and already resigned to his fate. He might have called it miserable if simply looking up at Enjolras wasn’t a privilege, an honour. The Universe had blessed him with this sacred gift he doubted he deserved at all. Enjolras was beyond his mortal reach; he was a deity Grantaire was content to venerate. 

 

He would kneel before him. He’d give offerings. He would lay down his life for him, no questions, no hesitations, no doubts. If it’d meant a single look from Enjolras with eyes finally considering him as someone worthy of his respect instead of his scornful disregard, he’d do anything, and if it included foolishly selfless acts then so be it. 

 

‘Are you done here?’ Enjolras asked Courfeyrac, who was busy sipping from Jehan’s glass. 

 

‘We need you to prepare the meeting with the Dean tomorrow,’ Combeferre replied easily, the patient smile on his lips a stark contrast to the rapid tapping of Enjolras’s fingers against the table. ‘Bahorel and Joly provided another list of arguments they believe might be helpful to use to our advantage tomorrow. Now we need to reorganise everything.’

 

‘We have less than twenty four hours left,’ Enjolras pointed out, voice as strained as the rope of an bow ready to snap, as he glanced at the plastic clock nailed above the door. ‘You know we can’t risk the repercussions of showing up anything less than perfectly prepared. Not this time.’

 

Courfeyrac turned his head to look at Combeferre first then Enjolras. He sighed dejectedly. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m coming.’ He pivoted on his seat to face Jehan and smiled brightly, his brown eyes gleaming. ‘Darling, what do you say about breakfast tomorrow morning before class? 8, your flat?’

 

Jehan made a face. ’Fine, but only if I’m the one cooking.’

 

Courfeyrac winked at him with a self-satisfied smirk. He gulped the rest of the rosé in one go and stood in a swift and fluid movement from his chair, turned to Grantaire. ‘I’ll contact you tonight for the informations,’ he said again, and disappeared through the crowd before Grantaire could answer anything. 

 

‘Have a good evening.’ Combeferre said to both Grantaire and Jehan, then offered the latter an apologetic look, possibly for depriving him of his boyfriend for the rest of the night.

 

‘Jehan.’ Enjolras nodded politely to him. ‘Grantaire.’

 

* * * * *

 

Two days later found Grantaire standing in front of Courfeyrac’s uncle timbered chalet with the key he found under a lantern in one hand, his duffle bag in the other, and all ten fingers petrified with cold. It must’ve snowed all day long. The ground was covered under a thick blanket of snow that crunched under his feet with every single one of his steps from the train station to the threshold. 

 

The chalet was everything Courfeyrac had promised; secluded with the village visible in the distance, built deeper in the valley with only the mountain and intimidating pines looming over, its facade crooked and built exclusively with wood. The surroundings were all of a striking white, the nature dormant around him and almost bewitching. The impression of serenity it evoked in Grantaire helped in convincing him coming earlier than the others had been a good idea after all. That peaceful atmosphere alone was something he craved when his brain spiralled into an an uncontrollable chaos. He could already feel his tumultuous train of thoughts easing to something more easy. Jehan might’ve been right, after all. Nature might have a positive influence on people. Grantaire couldn’t even remember the last time he’d come close to a forest, let alone have a walk inside one. 

 

His fingers wouldn’t slid the key inside the lock properly. With his hands trembling as hard as his teeth chattered, all attempts were vain. He was close to give up when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He startled so violently the key dropped to the welcome rug. 

 

‘Shit.’ He took his headphones off and whirled around for his eyes to grow wide when he noticed Enjolras, impossibly there, crouching down and retrieving the key from the ground. He was back on his feet before Grantaire could process what was happening.

 

‘I called your name when I saw you on the path but you didn’t hear me,’ Enjolras said as he handed him the key back. Grantaire shook his head and stepped aside, signalling Enjolras to open the door instead as he lifted his hands to show him how unsteady they were. ’We must’ve been in the same train.’ 

 

‘What are you doing here?’ Grantaire had thought Enjolras and Combeferre were due to leave this evening for the latter’s family. 

 

Enjolras set his suitcase near Grantaire and moved to the door. ‘Combeferre’s parents weren’t exactly pleased to hear about the petition, you know the one we circulated last week on campus. They thought it would be better if I didn’t come over for Christmas once they discovered it was initially my idea. I don’t blame them. Combeferre almost got excluded because of it.’ 

 

Enjolras pushed the door open and took a step back, inviting Grantaire to enter first. 

 

‘How gallant of you,’ Grantaire said, but readjusted his grip on his duffle back and made his way into the wooden house. ‘It still doesn’t explain why you’re here. The others are only coming in two days.’ Grantaire glanced over his shoulder as Enjolras followed him inside and shut the door then bent forward to untie his sneakers. ‘Courfeyrac must’ve told you this. The man’s behaviour is a mystery most of the time but God knows he isn’t the impish sort to force you down here, trapped with only the pleasantness of my company.’

 

‘He was perfectly clear,’ Enjolras explained, voice terse. ‘It was my choice to come earlier.’

 

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow and looked at him insistently until Enjolras eventually gave up the resistance with a long-suffering sigh. ‘I didn’t want to inconvenience him and Jehan.’

 

‘I thought you had your own flat?’ Grantaire observed. 

 

He’d never been there himself of course, had never been invited to do so, but from what Courfeyrac said it was the picture of a space impersonal enough to offer no temptation of distraction to the focused mind. "A working office has more personality than his whole flat, if you don’t notice the small items people gifted him over the years into account," he’d said, but with a fond smile tugging at his lips.

 

Enjolras’ expression veered into something tremendously pained and Grantaire tried hard not to marvel at the way his delicate features twisted in a way that was unfamiliar to him. ‘I do but unfortunately my flat isn’t soundproofed.’ He paused a moment to pull off his jacket and scarf to hook them to the wall. ‘My neighbour’s girlfriend is back. They’re long distance from what I understood and they spent the last two days…reuniting.’ He suddenly looked down at the floor and scratched the back of his neck. ‘And they’re…loud. Enough that everything they do echoes in both my living room and bedroom.’

 

Grantaire nearly broke into laughter. The irony of Enjolras—asexual and proud of it—having to endure the raucous of debauched and merry frolics of other people wasn’t lost on him and he only managed to refrain himself at the last second, but an amused breath slipped anyway. 

 

Enjolras looked up at the quiet sound to pine him down with defiant eyes despite his awkwardness. It made Grantaire feeling appropriately castigated. They were standing much more closer than they normally did, with only a dozen of centimetres separated them instead of the Musain’s backroom. From there Grantaire could see the full bright flush on his cheeks and tip of his nose, caused either by the cold or discomfort or both. 

 

Enjolras kept his fierce eyes fixed on Grantaire a moment longer, obviously daring him to mock further the misfortune of his circumstances and prolong his evident agony. It worked in dissuading him; Grantaire’s itch to joke about it faded and he found himself feeling flustered under the challenging gaze. 

 

‘Should I removed myself from your view in the incoming days to please, your Highness,’ Grantaire said with mock demureness to bring the conversation back to familiar territory and steady ground. At this the sternness of Enjolras’s eyes vanished, leaving room for the usual exasperation. This Grantaire knew how to handle. ‘Or is my humble presence tolerable to you?’ 

 

Enjolras clenched his jaw at that, and the corner of his lips gave a displeased twitch. Grantaire paid it no attention, though he had no idea what had frustrated Enjolras in what he said. It was either Grantaire placing him as a monarch or undermining himself in his self-deprecating brand of humour. If it was the latter, it was proof alone that they spent no time in each other’s vicinity out of the meetings. Everyone close to Grantaire knew what to expect from him.

 

‘Why only tolerable? Enjolras asked and, damn, he peered at Grantaire with an expectant look in his eyes, evidently curious about the answer.

 

‘It was a joke?’ Grantaire replied, and his lack of conviction made it sound like a question. The words had hardly left his lips that already he was overtaken by regrets. 

 

Enjolras gazed gravely. ‘Are you sure? I don’t see what’s funny in putting yourself down.’

 

‘Only because you lack the experience as a witness. Trust me, give it a day or two, and you’ll change your mind.’

 

Enjolras lowered his blond eyebrows. ‘I’m pretty certain I won’t.’

 

‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ Grantaire scoffed, derisive.

 

‘Regarding this, yes. I am.’

 

Oh, to be confident in yourself and, most importantly, your beliefs. Grantaire could only dream about being like that—dream, imagine, fantasise—he drew the line at expecting, though. The simple expectation of ever reaching this level of ease and comfort with himself one day was so ludicrous it made him snort. Grantaire ignored the expression on Enjolras’ face and turned to take in the living room at last. 

 

The chalet was, as stated before, made exclusively of wood, it also included furnitures. Only the decorations was exempt. It was smaller than Grantaire had imagined but also less rustic. The cosy atmosphere of the fireplace and the plush armchairs covered with throw pillows promised more comfort than Grantaire had expected from his stay here. This was the central room, with a kitchenette in the back, a ladder giving on a mezzanine and two doors.

 

Enjolras picked up his suitcase and stepped farther inside, where he stopped in the middle of the room and turned around, examining his surroundings with intense focus and stopping to study random details; first a couple of matching candles set upon the mantel, then a wooden head stag nailed to the wall right above and a snowflake cushion on one of the armchairs. 

 

‘This is oddly comfortable looking,’ he stated. ‘From what Courfeyrac said, I expected a spartan interior.’

 

‘And it would be even nicer with wood in the grate.’ Grantaire had no intension of admitting how frozen he was at first but by now, he’d lost almost all sensations in his hands and drenched-socked feet.

 

‘Are you cold?’ Enjolras asked with concern, then put let his suitcase in the middle of the room and stepped toward Grantaire. He eyed him up and down, stopping an instant on his feet. His brows creased in the middle. ‘Of course you are. Your teeth are chattering. And look at your socks. I’m sure there’s wood somewhere. You should go take a shower while I look for it. Then I’ll call Courfeyrac.’

 

‘I am perfectly able to look for it myself, thanks,’ Grantaire retorted, voice brisk, trying with all his might to stare directly at Enjolras, offence in his eyes. But looking straight at Enjolras proved hard with Enjolras staring right back at him, obviously ready to out wait him. Enjolras had an unfair advantage on him: he didn't feel his chest constricting under the intensity of his blue gaze. Grantaire, now meek, was about to capitulate and advert his eyes when Enjolras rolled his eyes, with a huff. He waved his hand to Grantaire’s feet then his duffle bag.

 

‘I’m sure you have warmer clothes in this than the ones you currently have on you.’ Enjolras examined him from head to toe again, then went back to his eyes. ‘Look at you, your whole body’s shivering. Go in the shower before you catch a cold or pneumonia.’ The authority of his tone left no room for argument, and Grantaire did not resist. All his limbs were indeed trembling and if he contracted something, there were chances he might contaminate Enjolras afterward, as well as the others once they’ll arrive. He would hate for his stubbornness to cause everyone a horrendous Christmas where everyone was ill.

 

‘Fine. But don’t come and complain when all the hot water is used.’ He gave Enjolras a impish turn of his lips and walked past him to the two doors. He opened one, saw a bed inside situated against the wall, closed it and opened the next one. He spotted the shower and hurried inside, clicking the door shut behind him. He rapidly undressed and abandoned his clothes on the mat before he stepped behind the glass door. 

 

The shower was heavenly. 

 

After trudging for what felt like hours in the snow in worn out sneakers and a barely protective coat, there simply was no sensations more pleasurable than warm water against frozen skin. It pattered on his neck, ran down his back and legs stiffened with cold, and an obscene moan escaped him. He immediately opened his eyes, mortification assaulted him as he realised the sound might’ve slipped from the shower and reached Enjolras’ ears. But even overtaken with panic, Grantaire remained motionless and passive under the water. He stayed there until his body was adequately warmed up, and sensations were back in his limbs and muscles.

 

Despite teasing Enjolras with cold water, he took great caution in the time he remained in the shower, and before long, he turned off the stream and took a reluctant step out. Towels were quickly found in the closet. Grantaire swathed himself in a large one and towel dry his hair with a smaller one. Humid, his curls were more disorderly than usual, but he forced himself not to try to brush them into something a bit more ordered. Enjolras was destined to see him with his unkempt bed air in the next few days anyway and he’d already seen the mess that it become when it rained. There was no reason for him to be self-conscious about it now. Not everyone could be blessed with perfect hair all the time the way Enjolras was.

 

Back in the main room Enjolras was sitting by the crackling fire place—now filled with wood in the grate. He was tapping furiously on his phone. Grantaire shut the bathroom door silently behind him.

 

‘Found is the wood, lit is the fire and vanquished is the cold. My good sire, I thank you and bestow upon you my most sincere and eternal gratitude.’

 

Enjolras startled when Grantaire broke the silence. He shifted to look at Grantaire over his shoulder with a deep frown between his brows. Grantaire immediately dropped the act. 

 

‘I found the wood outside. It’s right under the window.’

 

‘Everything okay?’

 

Enjolras, with a sharp intake of breath, rubbed the side of his face. ‘What I also found is that there’s no internet connection. I tried to call Courfeyrac several times. Combeferre too. Nothing. And Combeferre always answers his phone.’

Grantaire padded down the rest of the room and lowered himself on the chair across from Enjolras. It was indeed as gloriously comfortable as he’d hoped. He took one of the two cushions underneath him and brought it up so he could hold it against his stomach. 

 

‘I’m sure there’s wifi in the village,’ Grantaire offered. ‘It must be ten minutes away, maybe fifteen with that kind of snow. ’ 

 

Enjolras hummed, begrudging, but Grantaire blamed his irritation on their misfortune rather than on Grantaire himself for once. 

 

‘I’ll go check tomorrow,’ Enjolras said. The lines of his brow smoothed as he run his eyes down Grantaire’s body, surely taking in his pyjamas. Grantaire had rarely seen an atrocity worse than this pattern. The combination of brown octopuses and lilacs together made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Joly had gifted them to him a month ago after he’d complained about how he couldn’t find his winter night clothes and couldn’t turn on his heater yet. The next evening, Joly had showed up with a badly wrapped package and a speech about the importance of keeping your body warm at night.

 

‘You won’t made me feel self-conscious about them,’ Grantaire said with his chin jutted out. ‘They’re warmer than you'd think.’

 

‘You’ve stopped shivering and your skin’s flushed,’ Enjolras observed, not bothering to mention the pyjamas. ‘I take it you’re feeling better.’ 

 

Grantaire itched to comment about the flush of his skin, but restrained himself despite the pull of the temptation. They were about to spend the next couple of days stuck together in a narrow cabin in the middle of nowhere, so it would be better to keep any potential arguments and fights out of the door or things will get insupportable fast. 

 

They’ll have all the time in the world to go back to them after new year when the meetings will have resumed with everyone else present. The both of them together, deprived of anyone else’s presence to monitor their interactions had never occurred until now. Grantaire had no idea what to brace himself for exactly and it filled his stomach with dread. The only thing he know for sure was that things were bound to turn nasty soon. The trust he had in himself was scant at best and non-existent at worst. He couldn’t count on himself when it came to assume a proper conduct in general, but with only Enjolras around? 

 

He was screwed. 

 

So royally screwed he might as well give up already. Nothing regrettable had occurred yet; if Grantaire were to keep to himself as much as he could in a place so compact from now on, and placing as much distance possible between Enjolras and him, chances of the atmosphere deteriorating would have diminished by a great margin already. Grantaire should call it a night and retreat in bed and tomorrow after he wakes up, he’ll go seek refuge by the forest border. He’ll find himself a removed spot, discreet enough to be hidden from view to paint in peace all day long. 

 

‘I’m feeling better, yes. Thank you,’ Grantaire replied when Enjolras’ expectant eyes remained fixed on him, waiting for an answer. ‘And I was feeling charitable enough to leave you hot water.’

 

He held the cushion closer to his stomach and started biting the inside of his cheeks.

 

A peculiar silence stretched between the both of them, neither easy nor particularly awkward. It lasted for so long that pins and needles started in Grantaire’s feet where he had stuck them underneath him. He uncrossed his legs and tried to massage the sensations away. 

 

A long yawn eventually broke the silence, and Enjolras looked up from his phone. ‘Would you like the bedroom?’

 

‘Would you?’ Grantaire replied. He raised a suggestive eyebrow. ’Everything’s fine with me, you know, whatever crosses your mind.’

 

Enjolras’s eyes filled with absolute incomprehension but quickly schooled the expression under an impassive mask. ‘You should have it.’

 

‘I can’t imaging whatever you found in it that is so abhorrent that you’d prefer having me sleeping in there.’

 

Enjolras’s features hardened into something disgruntled. ‘If it were the case, then I certainly would not offer it to you,’ he said, voice conveying full affront. ‘And I would tell you. I’m just being a decent human being.’

 

Oh, Enjolras’ famous sense of humour.

 

‘I was just joking. Relax.’

 

The tension on Enjolras’ face faded slightly, though not by much. ‘If you don’t want it just say so, and I’ll take it,’ he declared.

 

‘I don’t want it,’ Grantaire said and Enjolras immediately hauled himself to his feet. 

 

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then. Good night.’

 

Enjolras picked up his suitcase and vanished in the bedroom. Grantaire was certain that if the bedroom door had a key, Enjolras would’ve locked himself just to make it clear to Grantaire he didn’t want him disturbing him in the middle of the night.

 

‘Have a good night too,’ Grantaire said. There was no need to raise his voice for it to carry. The chalet was minuscule enough that one could speak in hushed tones and still be heard from everywhere inside the wooden walls. 

 

Grantaire woke up in the middle of the night to his whole body shivering once again. He lifted one hand from under his covers and reached blindly in the pitch-dark for his phone. 3:10 am it read. No wonder it was still fully dark outside with an eerily silent floating around. No city noises; no cars, no drunks chattering loudly beneath Grantaire’s bedroom window and no bird singing yet the rise of the sun either. His usual environment was constant noises and never quite dormant and he couldn’t help finding the quietness and stillness of his surroundings uncanny. Also, it was atrociously cold. 

 

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment. He discerned no sound other than the erratic one of his own breathing. With reluctance, he led the little warmth the covers provided to rummage through his duffle bag at the end of the bed. He felt his thickest sweater under his fingers and hurried to pull above his pyjamas. His scarf, hat, and gloves followed just as quick. 

 

He thought about climbing down the mezzanine to lit up the fireplace and huddle in one of the armchairs to save his limbs from freezing but before he moved he remembered Enjolras telling him he’d found the wood outside the chalet. Grantaire was instantly deterred. He was also struck by the epiphany that coming here earlier had been an enormous mistake. Instead of suffering here, he could’ve been comfortable in his own bed with the heater on and the usual city noises lulling him to sleep, plus the addition of the wifi to distract his attention away from the knowledge that Enjolras was asleep under the same roof as him right now, just the two of them. This was too much for him to handle. 

 

An hour later, after turning and tossing on the bed and failing to go back to sleep, Grantaire eventually convinced himself to leave the mezzanine for the sofa and answer the distracting call of the unused blanket he spotted there earlier. 

 

Said blanket, plaid coloured and neither warmer or thicker than the one on his bed, proved only acceptable when Grantaire managed to wrapped himself in it, on top of the other one already enveloped around his body. After five minutes curled in a tight ball on the sofa under all his layers, the agonising temperature finally became manageable. He was about to drift off, with sleep finally back within his reach, when a quiet snore echoed. It came right from the other side of the wall. The bed Enjolras was in was situated against the same wall the sofa was pushed against. The image of Enjolras, asleep and snoring softly less than two meters from him, was too intimate to shake off from his mind's eye and it sufficed to have sleep retracting itself once more from Grantaire’s desperate reach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day in the chalet.

Enjolras was coming out of the bathroom when Grantaire opened his eyes and the view instantly cleared away the sleepy fog from his brain. Enjolras’ flushed face and damp hair woke him up faster than his alarm ever did. It took Grantaire a moment to connect to his full surroundings while he tried to prop himself on an elbow in his cocoon of blankets. 

Enjolras’ curls were as messy as his after the shower, despite what Grantaire had expected. They were wilder and more diffused around his face than Grantaire’s own in the same situation, though Enjolras’ golden mane was longer than Grantaire’s hair had ever been.

He struggled to unwrap himself from the blankets and pushed himself into a sitting position. 

Enjolras stopped short when he noticed Grantaire was awake. He eyed the hat still on his head with a frown but say nothing about it. Instead, he looked back at the kitchenette with frustration all over his face. 

‘I couldn’t find anything for breakfast. There’s only cocoa and coffee but no milk. And nothing to eat.’ He paused, eyes returning to Grantaire. ‘I wanted to go to the village to see about the wi-fi, buy some food and try to reach Courfeyrac at least. But we could go together and stop somewhere for breakfast if you’d like, now that you’re up.’

‘Not up yet,’ Grantaire corrected while stifling a yawn. ‘Only awake.’ His voice was still muffled by sleep. He straightened his spine, then struggled to free himself from his layers to stretch his arms high above his head.

Enjolras rolled his eyes with a discontent huff. 

Awake for less than two minutes and already, he had managed to grate on Enjolras’ nerves without any effort required on his side. Not that Grantaire usually made a conscious effort to antagonise him. It often seems to come naturally. Only when Enjolras was eyeing him with disapproval did he pick up on the fact that he’d done it once again, and by then it was too late for any backpedalling attempt to try to settle the matter.

It seemed to Grantaire that they were simply destined to not get along, not the least surprising considering his kind of luck in life so far. 

Some people, blessed that they were, happened to find other people with different destiny than his; with whom they shared a mutual, clear and undeniable alchemy. A magnetic pull they couldn’t resist if they wanted. These pairs of people couldn’t not get along. There might be an occasional argument or fight when opinions happen to be in contradiction and clashed, but the bond between them would overcome the futilities and sooner than later they’d be back on their shared synchronicity. These people always felt better together than they do when parted. At least, that was the image Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly projected most of the time. 

And despite the constant effect Enjolras had upon him, and the pull yanking in Grantaire stomach every time he was around, it was needless to say that they weren’t one of these pairs. 

The strange effect Enjolras ignited inside him was a dual conflict. Conflict where his mind would be uplifted at the mere sight of him, as upright and passionate as always, the view of the blinding sun after the darkest night; and another, where melancholy would embrace his soul with the knowledge that Grantaire could never be bright enough to measure up to him; could never deserve being his equal. He knew himself lacking in too many aspects. There were too many faults and defects to his character. And when the rare times the sparking hint of a doubt would rise in him, Enjolras’ reactions would never fail to reinforce the certainty of his unworthiness. 

The disdain he addressed him with made it clear. And if not, the scorn in his eyes when they landed upon him could only convince Grantaire of the aversion. An aversion that stung more deeply than his own parents’ rejection. But Grantaire rationalised it easily for no one expected the brightest flame to pay attention to the darkest shadow lingering in a far corner where its generous light hardly reach and illuminate the gloom.

Grantaire was content simply contemplating his glowing passion from a respectable distance.

 

‘Are you coming or not?’ Enjolras demanded, fixing impatient eyes on him.

‘Relax Max,’ Grantaire said. When Enjolras’s eyes narrowed at the words, he sprang to his feet. ‘Give me five minutes. Five. And I’m yours.’

He paused by the ladder and turned to Enjolras. He was still rooted to the spot, arms folded across his chest. Grantaire took a quick moment to marvel at the way he still managed to look imperious with a wild cloud of curls framing his face. ‘Do I have to come with you, though?’ he enquired.

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘No, but I wish you would. I don’t know what food you like. And we both need breakfast. Just take a moment to imagine if Joly knew we missed it.’ Enjolras grimaced at this, and Grantaire mirrored the expression. He couldn’t not to, having been subjected to Joly’s speech regarding the importance of breakfast more than it was necessary for all his life time and beyond. 

Grantaire gave a weak laugh. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ 

He hurried up the ladder. 

 

***

 

The village wasn’t far. They reached it in about fifteen minutes with snow falling softly and by that time, Enjolras and Grantaire had yet to initiate any semblance of conversation.

Enjolras looked like he was trying hard to start one that wouldn’t end up in an argument. Grantaire caught him several times biting on his lips before parting them slightly the way he always did before he spoke, though no word made it out. 

‘We need to stop by a tabac first,’ Enjolras eventually said as soon as they set foot inside the village. ‘For the-‘

‘Newspaper, yes. I expected that much.’ 

Enjolras said nothing else but gave a firm nod. 

They quickly came across the common red label TABAC hung above them, the same one Grantaire could see from his window back in Paris. 

Enjolras told Grantaire to wait him outside and pushed open the front door with an old bell ringing. He came back less than a minute later with the newspaper folded in his hand and a distinctly lightened expression on his face. His eyes corners were less strained, and his mouth no longer pressed into a flat, discontent line. Probably the immediate effect of finally exchanging words with someone other than Grantaire in more than twelve hours.

The next destination was a café farther down the festive street. Enjolras stopped in front of it and glanced at Grantaire with a questioning eyebrow raised, to which Grantaire shrugged in return. The choice of café didn’t matter to him, as long as there was something warm to drink, everywhere was fine. Enjolras pulled the door toward him and gestured for Grantaire to enter first. 

‘Always so gallant,’ Grantaire murmured as he moved past him as instructed.

Enjolras sighed but followed with a strong, resolute step. It seemed even away from Paris and its frenzy civilisation, he could not stop behaving as if in the middle of a battle field. Defiant gait, stiff spine, and determined turn of his nose, but he also exuded a welcoming and amicable energy. Same energy he used to welcome the waitress who came to them with the menus shortly after they’d settled to a table in the back of the room. The window behind him gave directly on the decorated street outside; with white pine trees and fairy lights and shining Christmas ornaments.

The waitress smiled at them and Grantaire cracked a flirty smile back at her with an eyebrow raised suggestively and Enjolras shot him a brief glance before he accepted the two menus with a polite "thank you", before Grantaire could even say a word.

‘We’re not at home. This is not the Musain,’ Enjolras whispered curtly as he lowered his gaze to the list of beverages. 

‘I wouldn’t have gathered that much. Thank you for the enlightenment,’ Grantaire whispered back, tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with anything.’

Without lifting his head, Enjolras said, ‘This isn’t Matelote or Gibelote.’ 

Grantaire huffed. ‘So?’

‘I have yet to see you well-mannered at the Musain’, Enjolras replied matter-of-factly. ‘Your humour is crude in public and I won’t have you being disrespectful to her, or speak her ear off.’

Grantaire frowned at him with indignation. ‘Are you implying that I’m burdensome?’ He asked, more vexed than he would’ve liked to admit. 

Enjolras locked his eyes with his and straightened in his chair. ‘You have a certain tendency to be quite rude, and not just to the staff. Also, it’s probably not my place to say, but sometimes you should be more succinct when you speak.’

A shadow of embarrassment flared in Grantaire’s chest and he averted his eyes down to the red napkin on the table.

‘I can’t be the first one to point this out,’ Enjolras said a moment later, factual in his disbelief.

Grantaire kept his gaze firmly stuck on the napkin and scratched a loose thread with his thumbnail.

‘I know it’s an attribute of most deities to flatter themselves, but trust me, in this particular case, the need for it could not be more unnecessary.’ 

Enjolras was not the first one to remark on this particular flaw of his and even less to his face. The last one was Courfeyrac, a week prior, when Grantaire had wasted ten minutes of Gibelote’s time monologuing about nothing specific, jumping from one topic to the next then to another again because his brain had discovered new tangents it thought deserved attention. Enjolras had no reason to know this, but Grantaire was surprisingly more self-restrained when sober, as well as more morose too, which was a definite drawback.

The waitress came back a moment later for their orders. And despite the shame constricted his chest, he couldn’t help looking up when Enjolras asked for a caramel hot chocolate after Grantaire, exceedingly polite and respectful thank you very much, ordered a cappuccino for himself. 

‘I would appreciate if you could stop eyeing me like that,’ Enjolras said once the waitress went back behind the counter. 

Grantaire brought a hand to his heart. ‘Me? And how I am eyeing you exactly?’

Enjolras didn’t bother replying. He preferred to lift an eyebrow instead, making it clear he didn’t buy Grantaire’s feigned ignorance. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. There’s no need to play more stupid than you actually are.’

Grantaire couldn’t help the derisive snort that escaped. ‘Does it mean you think I’m actually smart?’ 

‘As I just said, don’t play more stupid than you are. By the way, you remember when you said I couldn’t make you feel ashamed of the eyesore you call pyjamas?

Grantaire gave a bewildered nod. ‘What about it?’

‘The same applies to my hot chocolate.’ His words had an air of finality that allowed no room for argument.

‘I’ve always imagined you as an espresso guy,’ Grantaire admitted, teasing. ‘The no cream, no sugar type. All black.’

‘I swear, if you finish this with like my soul, I’m leaving,’ Enjolras warned, and it might just have been one of his usual retort, but there was something beneath his words that Grantaire discerned but failed to interpret. 

‘Did I hit a nerve?’ He asked, though it would make no sense at all. There had to be a story behind this sort of comment Grantaire was not privy to.

Enjolras didn’t deign replying and Grantaire didn’t press him, sensing the endeavour would be unwelcome. 

‘You know, since we sat here I learned something invaluable.’

Enjolras lowered his brows. ‘Which is?’

‘You’re actually capable of complimenting me. I mean, you decimated me two minutes ago, but, you did compliment my intelligence.’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras started with a suffering sigh. ‘It wasn’t a compliment. Simply a mere observation of your character.’

‘Coming from you? I’ll take it as one anyway.’

Enjolras huffed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t take it as one, but I suppose you’re free to do as you please.’

‘Thank you. Will do.’ Grantaire beamed with a grin showing his teeth. 

An unfamiliar emotion flickered over Enjolras’s features and suddenly he was staring right at Grantaire with a discreet crease between his brows, before hastily averting his gaze to the counter with his face and body now guarded. Grantaire, fully taken aback by the abrupt change, had no idea what had prompted this, although it seemed evident it ought to be something he either did or say.

He wanted to ask for clarifications to know what he should apologise for, but was interrupted by the waitress. She set down their respective beverages carefully in front of them, then placed the croissants, tray and bill on the centre of the table and walked back from where she came. 

This time, before he could finally enquire, it was Enjolras’ turn to interrupt, but on a visual level.  
Enjolras sipped on his hot chocolate and looked up at him as he put the cup back on its saucer. The white foam permeating his chaste upper lip was a sight that clearly ought to belong in Heaven. 

At once, Grantaire found himself weak and disarmed. His breath caught in his throat, his heart fluttered with a sentiment he couldn’t explain. It had to be caused by the improbability of this sight, so drastically at odds with what Grantaire usually glimpsed from the man at the Musain. 

Grantaire was so endeared that he was strongly tempted to immortalise it. However, despite the urge to open the camera app on his phone, the certainty of disapproval it would provoke in Enjolras dissuaded him. He would surely reckon Grantaire was making fun of him and no explanation on his part would convince him of the opposite. Worse, if he were to confess the reason compelling him, Enjolras would see this only as further confirmation of Grantaire’s alleged mockery. It might culminate with him snapping back and or withdrawing with his defences built up until Courfeyrac and the others show up, maybe for longer than that. A picture wasn’t worth spoiling Christmas, never mind how divinely glorious it would have been.

They barely exchanged words afterward. Enjolras was no longer in a talkative mood—not that he’d been in one initially but now it had only worsened—and Grantaire, sober and captivated, without anyone willing to pay attention to his words, grew quiet as well. Bizarrely, with only Enjolras around, his ramblings didn’t come to him as easily as they normally did. Eventually, Enjolras wiped the foam and pulled his phone from his coat pocket. Courfeyrac didn’t answer when he called, but Combeferre did, and he quickly hanged up to continue their conversion though text. It made no sense, but it wasn’t Grantaire’s place to judge his habits, no matter how odd and nonsensical they appear to be.

Grantaire wanted to try to reach Bossuet and Bahorel, but nine in the morning was too early for them to be up yet; same with Joly and Musichetta if they went to bed at the same time as the former. And Eponine and Cosette were supposed to be on their plane at the moment. 

 

***

 

Grantaire left the chalet with his drawing pad five minutes after they’d returned. First, he helped Enjolras unpack all the supplies they bought, kept a granola bar that he slipped into his coat pocket and sneaked out without informing Enjolras. Not that Enjolras would care whether he was there or not, except perhaps for the relief and peace his absence will bring.

He found a nice spot sooner than expected. There was a bench by the forest ten minutes away, situated higher on the slope behind the chalet. 

He crossed his legs and set his tablet against his thighs. The valley was stretching wide, offering him a full view. White woods surrounded everything in a peaceful embrace. From up there, the village was hardly more than an assortment of roofs lower in the prairie. The chalet was the only building relatively close, though several large pines concealed it from view. 

Grantaire stayed there for most of the day. Time passed by swiftly as the landscape became his sole point of focus. Sometimes, when he was feeling properly inspired, art demanded an absolute surrender before a trance would follow. His hand moved with more haste than his brain did, details on the screen appeared before he made the decision to reproduce something specific. Everything else was drowned out. In this state, nothing existed anymore other than what he was gazing at. 

After scrutinising the view before him for several hours, Grantaire could easily draw it from memory alone, but there was something in the crisp air and stillness around him that loosened a tight knot in his stomach. Usually, solitude and silence were a torture for him. Some people could live with no one around, but Grantaire couldn’t. When all by himself and deprived of any sort of human distraction, it was too easy for his brain to fall back into familiar gloominess. To his own surprise, it was yet to occur this time. His thoughts were still light and unperturbed; there seemed to be no melancholy lurking around in the deep confines of his mind. 

Sometime in mid-afternoon, he drifted off and when he came back to himself, the snowflakes had increased in size. The sun was sunk low behind the mountain, and when he rose from the bench, his feet crunched through the snow, and he found himself buried halfway to his knees. He cursed his luck as snow invaded his sneakers and the bottom of his trousers, and hurried back to the chalet. Small mercy that Enjolras wasn’t with him to comment on his clown-like gait. And he would only be proven right regarding the point he tried to make in the morning, when he learned that Grantaire didn’t bring boots with him. It had sounded patronising and more admonishing than he had any right to, but Grantaire had only dismissed his remarks with flippant irony. 

His socks stuck coldly to his stiffened feet all the way back. 

When he stepped inside the chalet with drenched sneakers and chattering teeth, Enjolras looked up from the sofa where he was tucked under the plaid blanket with a book. He said nothing. There was no need, his eyes conveyed his I-told-you-so more eloquently than words could possibly have. 

Enjolras, apparently still stuck in his taciturn mood, made no further attempts at conversation so Grantaire didn’t push his luck and disappeared in the shower the way he had yesterday. By the time Grantaire was finished with the bathroom, he found Enjolras with a pan and serving two plates in the kitchenette. ‘I made an omelette,’ he said, turning to Grantaire. 

‘I vividly remember Combeferre saying you couldn’t be trusted with food,’ Grantaire said as he moved to him and took the plates to the table along with the cutlery. ‘But that’s nice.’

‘Please, everyone can cook an omelette.’

‘Hopefully.’

Grantaire waited until Enjolras had sat in the chair opposite him before he shoved a forkful in his mouth. He didn’t need to wait long before he came to the conclusion that not everyone, in fact, could cook an omelette. The amount of salt and pepper was just too much. Grantaire could barely taste the eggs. And was it turmeric and cinnamon he discerned? He looked up at Enjolras, waited to see his reaction following his first bite, before deciding on what to say. He forced his face to remain imperturbable when he bit on something that crunched between his teeth. 

‘This is ignoble,’ Enjolras said quickly, his nose scrunched up with distaste as his eyes met Grantaire’s. 

Grantaire shrugged. ‘It’s fine, Enjolras,’ he lied. Grantaire felt a malicious delight in discovering that Enjolras’ wasn’t actually perfect in everything he did after all, but he didn’t have the heart to confirm the distaste on his face. ‘It could be worse.’ It definitely couldn’t.

‘Please,’ Enjolras said, voice dry. ‘Don’t lie and don’t feel forced to eat this.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Grantaire waved a hand. ‘I told you, it’s edible.’

‘No. I seriously mean it. Don’t eat this,’ Enjolras insisted. He pulled Grantaire’s plate away from him forcefully and stood up to empty the omelette of the two plates into the bin under the sink. 

‘I won’t have you sick just because you’ve a contradictory mind,’ Enjolras said when he turned over to him and saw Grantaire’s blank expression.

‘You should see what I sometimes eat. This is nothing in comparison.’ 

‘And I don’t believe you,’ Enjolras retorted. ‘Joly and Bossuet are always going on and on about your culinary skills.’ 

‘They do?’

Enjolras nodded. ’All the time.’

Grantaire felt warmth unfurling in the pit of his stomach. Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta always praised his food whenever he cooked for them, even when the end result could barely be considered passable, but to know they were praising it to other people? It filled him with an ineffable joy, never mind the fact that it surely was undeserved. ‘If my culinary skills are so renown, what didn’t you let me cook.’

‘At first I didn’t know when to expect you back and if you’d be able to cook anything when you did,’ Enjolras pointed out. ‘Then you came back and you seemed exhausted.’

‘Come on, I’m warmed up again, and we bought enough food this morning. I can certainly improvise something good,’ Grantaire said as he rose to his feet. All the variety of food currently in the chalet offered more choices than his usual pasta, rice or ramen at home. Culinary skills with no means to supply a kitchen was as useful as a car with no fuel inside; it served absolutely no purpose. With or without made no real difference.

‘No, I meant—’

‘But lucky for you, dear sir, Grantaire is here and amenable. Give me twenty minutes and you shall have a properly edible dinner served in front of you.’

He stood up and expected Enjolras to leave him to his cooking to go back to the sofa or whatever he’d been doing all day, but no. Enjolras remained right by Grantaire’s side as he went through the cupboards. He couldn’t stop marvelling at all the possibilities offered to him with all these ingredients. His fingers itched for so many meals he loved but was generally unable to make. Grantaire restrained himself. The evening was already advanced quite into the night, and he’d told Enjolras it’d be ready in twenty minutes. So, with the intent of pleasing Enjolras and his tastebuds, he retrieved some pasta, garlic, mustard, fresh cream, and mushrooms. 

Enjolras kept an attentive eye on everything he was doing, making Grantaire clench and unclench his fist more than once to release the pressure building inside him. Having Enjolras’ full undivided attention on him was something unprecedented so far and for Grantaire, who had never excelled in productivity under supervision, Enjolras as a supervisor only managed to tense him further. Enjolras’ scrutinising eyes felt like a judgment, promising doom soon. Besides, based on what he said about how Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly had talked about it, they had undoubtedly raised Enjolras’ expectations high above Grantaire’s aptitude. 

He was good at it, that even he would agree, but good the way an amateur could be. If he was to go to a chief tomorrow and cook for him, the chief’s would arch an eyebrow at him, utterly unimpressed.

‘I prefer to warn you now, though,’ Grantaire told Enjolras who hummed and flicked his eyes to him and away from the pan. 

‘Don’t expect anything equal to one of the restaurant you might frequent with your parents. I’m not that good.’

‘I hope for you you’re better than they are,’ Enjolras replied. ‘Believe me, the gastronomic restaurants my parents enjoy so much have never satisfied me. And once you’re done, you’re as starving as you were when you arrive. And it’s always too refined for me.’

‘Refined?’ Grantaire snorted, but not mockingly. ‘Says the one who thought cinnamon and turmeric were a good idea in an omelette.’

‘Don’t mock me. Feuilly cooked something like that once, and it was delicious.’

‘Yes, but he might’ve used a lighter hand with the dosage.’

Enjolras breathed an amused huff and Grantaire’s stomach flipped at the melody of the sound. This sort of reaction was never elicited by Grantaire. 

‘He might have, yes, ‘ Enjolras conceded easily then looked back at the pan.

‘You know, you might not trust me that much, but you need not ensure I’m not poisoning the food. I’m going to eat this too.’

‘Sometimes,’ Enjolras said, blunt, ‘You’re less funny than you think you are.’

Grantaire scowled. He brought a hand to his heart, wounded. ‘Sometimes? What outrage are you inflicting on my ears. I’m the most funny person you know. And no.’ Grantaire lifted his forefinger. ‘You have no right to name Courfeyrac. He’s only good at making you laugh because he’s known you for so long. He knows exactly what will earn the desired reaction from you.’

‘No, Courfeyrac is funny for real. He’s humorous. You’re different.’

‘How?’

Enjolras frowned, growing thoughtful for a moment. ‘Well, what you consider amusing is just you, deprecating yourself through an ironical and self-aggrandising way. Then you expect people to laugh at you. It’s quite masochistic of you. At least, it’s what I understood yesterday when you told me I would grow acclimatised to your brand of humour in the next couple of days. ’

‘And was I right then?’ Grantaire asked, forcing words to sound nonchalant when he felt anything but. ‘Are you acclimatised yet?’

Enjolras assessed him gravely. ‘I told you I wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t count on it if I were you.’ He paused and furrowed his brown.

‘What I mean is that, you can be funny sometimes, just like you were a moment ago. But if I were to laugh at the kind of jokes I usually heard from you, I would feel like I was only encouraging and contributing to you thinking self-loathing is funny and a way to get accepted by people. I’d just be rubbing it in.’

Grantaire tried to swallow, but something rotten had lodged right in the middle of his throat. He forced a laugh past his lips. It sounded off and acrid, and he downcast his eyes to the pan and poured some more cream into the mustard before mingling with the wooden spoon. 

‘I knew you were blunt and sharp with your words, but—’

‘If I hurt you, I apologise,’ Enjolras said seriously. ‘It wasn’t my intension.’

‘You flatter yourself, Monsieur, for truth, and truth only, is required to cause hurt. And you’re remarkably mistaken in your assumptions.’

Enjolras, who’d been about to say something, closed his mouth and flattened his lips in a tight line. 

‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ he said an instant later. ‘Combeferre always says I’m too impulsive. I speak my mind without taking the time and caution to consider my words too often.’

‘Do you know how to slice mushrooms?’ Grantaire questioned, deviating the topic of the conversation.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras tried but Grantaire cut him off.

‘The slices should be as thin as possible for this.’ When Enjolras only regarded him with an edge to his eyes, Grantaire turned off the fire and moved to deal with the mushrooms himself. 

‘Being honest is not a flaw, Enjolras. Don’t start flagellating yourself because of it. And even if it were, humans are flawed. Don’t worry, even with this one, you’re still nearing divine perfection.’

‘Is it supposed to be a compliment?’ Enjolras looked at Grantaire incredulous. ‘Divine perfection? I can’t name a single god I truly admire. Also, you seem to forget I can’t cook an omelette,’ Enjolras added, tentative, and a chuckle slipped passed Grantaire’s lips. 

‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘This is a recriminating and tragic flaw if I ever saw one. Heavens weep on your fate, you poor forsaken soul.’

Afterward he showed Enjolras how to use a knife to obtain the thinnest slices possible after he insisted on learning. 

Grantaire was nearly done with the preparation. When he was done with the plates, mushrooms and sauce poured over the pasta, Enjolras set them on the table.

‘Where were you today?’ Enjolras asked as he sat down. He opened a water bottle and poured two glasses, pushed one towards Grantaire’s seat.

‘Oh? Were you intrigued?’ Grantaire quirked a teasing eyebrow.

Enjolras waited until he was settled across from him. ‘I initially thought you went to a bar or a bistro maybe, but from what I’ve seen at the Musain, you’re talkative when drunk, and you’re not now. You don’t reek of alcohol and your hands are perfectly steady.’ 

Grantaire looked up at him. ’Did you really think I went to a bar?’ He asked with disbelief, trying hard to keep his voice steady. The insinuation, though it stung and vexed him, didn’t surprise him the least. After all, in all the months they’d known each other, Enjolras had seen him more often drunk than sober, so was he really wrong to jump to this conclusion when given the chance?

Enjolras shrugged. ‘I don’t see why wouldn’t. It made sense. Besides, we passed in front of one this morning.’

‘I can live a day without drinking, you know.’

‘I didn’t say you couldn’t.’

Grantaire waited, but Enjolras added nothing else. 

‘I went painting, if you want to know,’ he said quietly. 

A deep frown creased between Enjolras’s brows. ‘All day?’ He asked. ‘You didn’t have any canvas and brushes with you when you came back.’

‘Tablets exist, you know.’

Instead of answering, Enjolras dropped his eyes to the pasta in front of him. Grantaire stared at him and instantly, his previous vexation was replaced by a thrill of anticipation pumping through his veins. Enjolras—ignoble sadist that he was—took all his time, tormenting Grantaire in his expectation of feedback. His eyes were stuck eagerly on Enjolras’ fork. Until, at last, Enjolras brought it to his mouth. The next instant, his blue eyes fluttered shut and a satisfied sound followed.

Grantaire’s lips twitched into a smug smirk.

‘So, I take it is pleasing?’

Enjolras nodded, opening his eyes again. ‘Grantaire,’ he said once he’d finished chewing. ‘This is a marvel.’ 

Satisfaction flared in Grantaire’s chest. There was something exhilarating in being complimented by Enjolras. He’d never expected to receive one from him, so two in one day was either a blessing or a miracle. Who cared if Enjolras’ had been clumsy when commenting on his brand of humour. He’d endure more uneasy conversations of the kind if it meant he’d get complimented afterward. 

If it’d been anyone else, he might have suspected it to be a lie in the hope of flattering him as a compensation for the harsh words spewed at him earlier, but Enjolras was too noble for that. 

The hint of a smile graced Enjolras’s lips. It was hardly visible, but Grantaire noticed it nonetheless, and he couldn’t help but beam in return. His heart hammered madly in his chest.

‘Two compliments in a single day?’ Grantaire said, hoping he sounded less flustered than he felt. ‘You are feeling charitable today.’

‘This one is a compliment, yes. But this morning, you made a factual statement into one. It’s not the same thing.’

‘Oh come on,’ Grantaire waved a hand. ‘There was a strong implication that you seem to think I’m smart—and god knows why. That was a compliment.’

‘It was not,’ Enjolras protested before he shoved another forkful in his mouth. Once he was done with it, he pointed his finger at his plate. 

‘This? This is easily surpassing every restaurant, gastronomic or not, I ever went to.’

Grantaire’s blood rushed to his cheeks. 

He bent his face to hide his rapidly spreading blush and finally took his first bite. 

It was okay, not extraordinary and far from the best thing he’d ever cooked but if Enjolras enjoyed it, then who was he to contradict him. If he’d been able to use his phone, Grantaire would’ve hurried to share this with Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly. Jehan too, had he not been so close with Courfeyrac. Grantaire wouldn’t take any risk for his undue merriment to reach Enjolras’ ears in the coming weeks. 

Enjolras didn’t say anything more except another couple of soft exclamations praising Grantaire’s skills and to insist on helping with the dishes after dinner. Grantaire initially refused, though he relented eventually. Enjolras had the unfair advantage of being irresistibly persuasive in general, but when he pulled himself to his full weight? Grantaire was as lost a cause as it was humanly possible. 

Once they were done, Grantaire put another log in the grate and caused a flurry of sparks as another log fell, before tucking himself in one of the armchairs with his tablet and headphones in. 

‘Mind if I sketch you?’ 

Enjolras sat cross-legged in the other chair across from him with a book opened between his thighs and eyes running along the lines of words.

When he made no gestures indicating he had heard him, Grantaire cleared his throat and waved a hand before him. ‘Enjolras?’

Enjolras looked up this time. ‘Yes? You said something?’

‘Do you mind if I sketch you?’

Enjolras lowered his brows, as if he failed to fathom the reason why Grantaire would ask him this.

‘I don’t see why you would want to draw me.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Grantaire countered without missing a beat. 

Enjolras gave a half-shrug. ‘I’m not an artist, but I am certain they are more interesting things to capture than me. And more inspiring as well.’

Grantaire nearly scoffed. More interesting and inspiring than Enjolras? No one had ever said anything further from the truth in human history. 

‘Who said my intention wasn’t to draw a caricature of you?’

‘Was it your intention?’

‘’Maybe, maybe not,’ Grantaire lied. It certainly wasn’t his intension. Caricaturing Enjolras would feel like committing the worst sacrilege and Grantaire wasn’t ready to antagonise any god. His life was already enough of an ordeal as it was, he had no desire worsening it when he barely could handle it these days. 

‘Well, whether you believe it or not, you’re the most interesting here,’ Grantaire said. ‘And if you’re not satisfied with the result, I’ll delete it. I promise.’

Enjolras frowned, considering. ‘I don’t have to pose and stay still?’

Grantaire shook his head. ‘Nah. Just stay as you are. I’ll be quick about it.’

‘Fine.’

Despite his reluctance to remain still, Enjolras barely moved, except to turn pages every couple of minutes. He made it easy for Grantaire to reproduce the lines of his sitting body. He didn’t look down at the screen and kept his eyes fixed upon Enjolras and before soon, Grantaire glanced down to find a vaguely similar figure. It was hastily done; roughly outlined, and lines not yet precise, but after some refinements and more colours, it should bear a more impressive resemblance. 

 

***

 

Neither of them moved for another couple of hours, both comfortable in their armchairs. Grantaire had put down his tablet after a while and curled with his head resting on one armrest and his feet on the other, content simply regarding Enjolras. He was so intensely captivated by his reading that he didn’t seem to notice Grantaire staring shamelessly at him. 

Enjolras waited a long time before he retreated for the night. His head was lolling forward as he drifted off, still trying to read and eventually, Grantaire stood up from his chair to tap at his shoulder.

‘Enjolras?’

Enjolras raised his head, blinking at him. 

‘You should go to sleep,’ Grantaire said quietly. ‘Your book will still be here tomorrow.’

Enjolras looked a long moment at the opened book resting on his lap, then cast a brief glance toward the fireplace. 

‘You should add another couple of logs if you don’t want to sleep in your hat and gloves again tonight.’ 

‘Will do, yeah.’

Enjolras marked his book and went to his feet. 

‘Good night, Grantaire,’ he said as he turned to face him. 

Grantaire stepped back. Even barely awake, Enjolras had a certain fierceness to him, though it was somewhat subdued, and what he lost in intensity, he gained in uncharacteristic softness. The faint lines near his mouth and eyes were smoothed and his eyes, less fervent, shone with fatigue. 

Grantaire slept on the couch again that night, with his two blankets and his ugly pyjamas, but had no need for his hat and gloves and scarf. The warmth provided by the hearth was a definitive improvement. It was proof of how soundly he slept that the winter storm he discovered the next morning didn’t disturb his rest. 

Enjolras was up earlier than him once again, and this time he woke up to find him standing by the window, peering outside at the morosely grey sky. Through the haze of sleep, Grantaire noticed the tempestuous snow. 

‘Morning,’ Grantaire mumbled after he let out a long yawn. 

‘We’re stuck here today, it seemed,’ Enjolras observed as he glanced over his shoulder. The wind was blowing savagely outside. The view was indiscernible behind the heavy snowflakes. ‘I’m not sure the others are going to be able to ride this far in this weather.’

‘Mm.’ Grantaire grudgingly left the comfort and warmth of his blankets and padded down the room to join Enjolras by the window. The snow was going stronger than it did the previous day, the snowflakes were too thick and going too fast to properly discern them through the window. ’Do you think the roads might be blocked?’ He asked as he thought about Courfeyrac and the others. They were supposed to arrive later today, in the early afternoon.

‘Maybe. There was a winter storm warning in the newspaper yesterday,’ Enjolras said. ‘But I thought we’d be spared. I was wrong.’ 

Grantaire snorted. ‘Obviously.’

He shot Grantaire an annoyed look. 

Grantaire had just woken up. It was too early for him to think about restraining himself around Enjolras the way he always did when his thoughts were still all fuzzy. He needed at least five more minutes, if not ten, for his brain to be completely alert and in control. 

’We won’t be able to go back to the coffee shop this morning.’

‘Nor anywhere else, I think.’ Grantaire looked at the heavy blanket of snow outside. ‘See all the snow that accumulated overnight.’ He pointed at the ground outside. Enjolras’ eyes followed his finger. ‘It’s probably blocking the door right now. I don’t think we can even go out if we want to.’ 

Enjolras glanced at him, horror flashing in his eyes. He hurried to the door and tried to push it open. The first attempt failed so he tried again, only growing more frustrated with every new failure. 

‘I can’t believe this,’ he growled after he eventually gave up. He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I seriously can’t believe this. I used to go skiing every year when I was a kid and this never happened. Not once.’

Grantaire took a moment to look properly at him. Dressed in the same Scandinavian jumper as yesterday and black velvet trousers, his hair tied into a bun except for a few rebellious locks, and his blond eyebrows already creased in his characteristic frown, he glowed just as bright as usual. Grantaire didn’t know what caused him to be so luminous, but it made something tug yearningly in his stomach.

If the universe had wanted to exacerbate his misfortune, and torment him further than ever, it couldn’t have found a more wicked yet effective way than this scenario. The prospect of being stuck with Enjolras with no option to exit the chalet promised only agony for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out any typos you notice, and give me any feedback.  
> Thanks so much to everyone who read, kudoed, and commented, especially. You guys are the best <3
> 
> Also, Merry Christmas if you celebrate. 
> 
> The third chapter should be up later this week.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever, so please, tell me what you thought. I'm pretty desperate for your opinions.  
> And feel free to indicate any spellings or grammar mistakes if you spotted any. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at the-hopeful-lunaire


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